


Babe, how’s it f-eel?

by whaleofatime



Series: Date Night [2]
Category: Aquaman (2018), Batman - All Media Types, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Casefic (somewhat), Eels in the River Thames, Fluff and Humor, Long-Suffering Bruce Wayne, M/M, What counts as Date Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26062012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaleofatime/pseuds/whaleofatime
Summary: There's something afoot along the River Thames, and Aquaman needs some expert back-up.Batman comes when called by the king, and is still surprised that this is how his life is now.
Relationships: Arthur Curry/Bruce Wayne
Series: Date Night [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907071
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	Babe, how’s it f-eel?

At this point, it would be straight-up dishonest for Bruce to keep telling himself that he doesn’t know  _ exactly  _ what he’s signing up for. Sure, Arthur texts him and says he needs urgent help with a drug problem that’s fucking up the river Thames, and it  _ sounds _ like a legitimate concern. He’s not usually the go-to guy for international busts, just because pretty much any other Leaguer could get there faster, but he  _ is _ the member with the best track record in dismantling drug rings (on account of Gotham, god love her, being the way she is), so.

“It’s a serious issue,” he tells Alfred as he gets the BatWing ready, and packs everything from a tuxedo to shark-repellant because it  _ always  _ pays to be prepared.

Alfred wishes him well, and it’s a testament to the love and care he holds in his heart for Bruce that he doesn’t bring up the last time the King of Atlantis called in reinforcements for a ‘serious issue’.

(Bruce  _ cannot _ believe he is now banned from Ibiza through no technical fault of his own, even  _ after _ reimbursing the 15 fountains that they accidentally exploded while he was in his civilian guise).

“It’s drugs.  _ Serious _ drugs,” Bruce finds himself adding anyways, and realises somewhat abruptly that this instinct to bite back and hide his vague embarrassment is _exactly_ the reason why even his children struggle to come up with a good reply when caught red-handed.

(It makes a sort of vicious clarity now, why Dick had blurted “It’s for my study-group!!” when caught eye-balling condoms at age 16, pimpled and pale in a drug store they’re only visiting because Bruce had lost so much blood over the past 2 weeks even Alfred hadn’t been able to stock up on bandages quick enough. 

Bruce suddenly has a lot more sympathy in his heart for the average teenager.)

“Drugs, Master Bruce?” Alfred very carefully does not mock him, as he hands him a little Tupperware with roast duck sandwiches for the flight over. “Well, then. I’m certain you and dear Master Curry will have a lovely time together. Don't go too wild now.” Alfred gives off a very powerful aura of ‘ _ I’m so pleased you’re off on a playdate with your friend _ ’, and though he’s too dignified to actually say it, it’s still written loud and clear on his face.

Bruce takes himself off, off, and away before he can give in to the desire to wring his hands and shout ‘Serious drugs!’ again at Alfred, maybe gesture dramatically, but even suited up as Batman he can only hold off so much embarrassment.

-

They’re a mismatched pair, creeping in the shadows of Tower Bridge as the river sluggishly flows past them. Bruce is Batman, of course, because a billionaire squatting in the dark while running water quality tests isn’t a sight he wants to share with the world.

Arthur is… also present, looking like he’s excited to tread on Bruce’s every last nerve while wearing what can only be described as a dirty blond mullet for a wig. He’s made no effort to match the colouring of the wig to his brows or beard, he’s dressed like a parody of an English Dandy, his neat waistcoat is straining from Arthur leaning over and calling water up for Bruce’s tests, and Bruce has seen Carnival costumes less eye-catching.

Bruce pointedly doesn’t acknowledge Arthur’s appearance, because you don’t teach people not to be annoying by rewarding annoying behaviour. He waits until the water samples are running through his toxicology analyser before he stares at Arthur, and arches a brow where no one can see.

Arthur ignores the frosty silence, the hidden eyebrow, the visible scowl, and the literal cravat around his stupid throat. “So usually I just ignore a lot of the more minor marine complaints, ‘cos there’s not jackshit I can do ‘bout global warming and turtles choking on straws outside of literally killing off the human race, and me and the Atlantis gang are still workshopping that one as a solution.” He drops down to sit on the edge of the plinth, legs dangling over the brown waters, and his wig wobbles worryingly. “Psychic fish powers are a bag of fun until they're not, I can tell you that. So I’m dealing with the usual stuff, y’know, just listening to the decimation of millions of aquatic animals daily in the background, till something weird pings me.”

_Weirder than listening to the suffering of a crab being boiled alive?_ Bruce doesn’t ask, as he calmly considers vegetarianism.

Arthur carries on undeterred. “It came in kinda garbled at first, so I thought it was some Motherbox shit distorting fish thoughts, but then I figured out what made that sort of sound.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and looks at Bruce expectantly, waiting for some input.

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” Bruce says listlessly, as he reads through the print-out of the tox screen report.

“ _ I _ sound like that, if I get my hands on a hookah and some sweet Atlantean seagrass. My dad, too, after he’s had a bit too much too drink. Man, it’s a weird-ass feeling, hearing eels off their fuckin’ heads get freaked out and then kinda flip-flop between being super excited and so damn high their little hearts explode.” Arthur is playing this completely straight, has not cracked a smile, and looks genuinely upset for all English eels, and Bruce is just trying not to break. “So you’re here to help me figure out what’s got all these fish so fucked up. Is it alcohol entering sewers from people using too much hand sanitiser? 'cos that’s my bet. I bet it's-”

“Cocaine,” Bruce interrupts smoothly, cutting off the ‘boozy sewer’ conspiracy theory before it can gain traction. “It’s cocaine. There is enough cocaine in the water that someone enterprising with a distillery could be making a comfortable living as a drug dealer.”

Arthur just stares at him for a while, genuinely taken aback before he scowls. “Cocaine in the river Thames is another problem eels don’t need,” he says under his breath, clearly insulted on behalf of them. “What’s your quick fix for Londoners getting fish high, Bats?”

Never mind ‘quick’, it’s absurd that Arthur thinks this is a situation that Bruce is equipped, in any way, to ‘fix’. Still, it’s not in his nature to not problem solve, even when it’s out of his league. “I can prescribe the river with some benzodiazepines,” and Bruce is proud that his voice is holding steady and calm, “but since I’m not a veterinarian specialising in freshwater fish, I don’t know if that will help with the-,” he takes a deep, fortifying breath, “with the eels suffering from cocaine addiction.”

He can’t believe that those words have actually been forced to leave his mouth, but he’s a little proud that he still hasn’t succumbed to hysterical laughter (like a coked-up snake-cosplaying fish).

Arthur takes a moment to presumably commune with the denizens of the not-very-deep, but he comes back to himself with a scowl. “What the hell is ‘benzodiazepine’ in English eel?”

“Wonder Woman might know,” Bruce offers, grinding his teeth so hard to keep on sounding serious.

“She might,” Arthur says thoughtfully. He reaches for his phone, Lord God he is reaching for his phone to presumably text a literal goddess for input on fish medication, and karma’s sense of humour really is on full blast today because as he puts it up to his ear, a long-suffering waistcoat button gives up the ghost and ricochets off of him, hitting Bruce square on the carved-in scowl of his cowl.

The  _ ping! _ of a mother of pearl button bouncing off reinforced carbon fiber is something that will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, he’s sure. “I hate you so much,” he tells Arthur with great feeling.

“No you don’t, babe,” Arthur tells him as he starts typing out an SOS to Diana. “Also, this is 100% your fault. Barry said us dating was making you mellow out, which I disagreed with, so we had 50 bucks in the pot and  _ all _ you needed to do was shout at me for my outfit within the first 10 minutes of seeing me and we could have had mid-range pizza for dinner. “ There’s no more point in pretending, apparently, so Arthur flexes to get comfortable; a few more buttons fly off into the unknown, and a couple of seams rip, the last stand of a stressed-out waistcoat. He pointedly does  _ not _ take the wig off, and Bruce could scream. “Instead, you had to be all 'professional', so not only did I _not_ get you to snap ‘cos of drugged-up eels and my bottle blond hair, now I  _ actually  _ have to find out what’s going on.”

“I can help you, but-” Bruce has been doing his best, he really has, but not the carefully constructed persona he’s had for decades nor the literal litter laws of the land could stop him from stepping forwards, ripping the ugly blond wig off of the King of Atlantis’ head, and chucking it into the river. 

They both watch as it bobbed along like a mangy jellyfish, and when they look at each other, Arthur is full-on smug and Bruce is wishing he had some quick access to tiver cocaine too.

“I  _ knew _ the wig would crack you!” Arthur crows, proud as he fluffs up his sweat-damp hair. “The constant hair-pulling tipped me off, oh man, you’re looking at a guy 50 dollars richer than he was before, and-”

Bruce follows the path of the floating hunk of nylon, up to the point where it succumbs to being water-logged and goes under, and says (once again, with incredible feeling), “I hate you so much.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by 1. kuro seeing [ this article ](https://www.standard.co.uk/news/london/cocaine-in-the-river-thames-is-another-problem-eels-dont-need-says-expert-a4049086.html)and thinking of me 2. [this tiktok song that haunts me](https://www.tiktok.com/@boyjr.69/video/6861349217512787206) 3\. prompt for day 22, 'crime'.
> 
> The title and premise were supposed to work together with a climax of Arthur pointing to his wig and going "F **eel** this? It's boyfriend material" but some truths just cannot, will not manifest via the human hand. Now I just look like I'm inappropriately invested in wigs instead ;)
> 
> Hope you're having the best August you can manage!! 🐳


End file.
